


DRN in the dark

by surgicalstainless



Category: Almost Human
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Good thing he's got Dorian, John doesn't really know how to human, John doesn't really know how to use his words, Loneliness, Not entirely gratuitous pop-culture references, Oops Jossed already, Some stuff about aliens, or something like it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-07 04:31:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1115529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/surgicalstainless/pseuds/surgicalstainless
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's trapped in a fortress of solitude, and it sucks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	DRN in the dark

They're in the patrol car, on their way back from interviewing a witness, and John's griping about something trivial the way he usually does when things are weighing on his mind. He glances over to see Dorian watching him, that same slow half-smirk on his mouth and fondness in his eyes, and the thought hits him like a gut-punch:  _touch me_. 

He's built an armor around him, John Kennex has, after all these years on the force, the months in the coma, the weeks back at work. He's been twisting and turning all alone in this fortification he simultaneously hates and can't bear to live without — it's shocking, literally dumbfounding, to look over and discover that in almost no time at all Dorian has slipped inside the walls and is hunkered down here with him.

John wants Dorian to touch him so badly it scares him.  _I want to feel your skin on mine_ , he thinks,  _I want to feel your fingers on my fingers, on my wrist, on the back of my neck_ , so loudly he's surprised Dorian can't hear him.  _Prove to me you're really here, that I'm not in this alone_  — but he lacks the courage to lift his own hand and ask.

***

_Other_ , John Kennex is gradually coming to realize, is not the same as  _less than_. "Less than" doesn't pull practical jokes, or have lousy taste in music, or remember how John likes his coffee, or develop pet peeves, or show kindness to small children. What's the saying? Human is as human does?

Dorian's sitting across from him in the booth in the noodle bar, more-or-less patiently watching while John slurps up a really late lunch. The suspect wasn't cooperative, and he didn't go quietly (they never do) and Dorian's bleeding sluggish purple from a dozen nicks and scratches across his face. Looking like that — completely, irrefutably human except that he's bleeding lilac instead of red — John is reminded forcibly of some alien character from one of those old low-budget sci-fi shows on TV. 

Maybe that's the best way to think of it, John muses as he drinks his broth. Dorian is an alien. He's intelligent, and sensitive, and he looks pretty normal, but he's visiting from a completely different civilization. "It's life, Jim, but not as we know it," and all that. John wonders if they can build some kind of kinship on those grounds, like Kirk and Spock from that  _Star Trek_  franchise.

Dorian arches an eyebrow at him —  _are you finally finished yet?_  — and John just barely resists returning with a Vulcan salute.

***

John doesn't know what Dorian needs. 

Dorian's not shy. He complains and bullies and badgers and begs, as the situations require, but for all that noise he's a pretty private guy. John's not sure if that's personality or programming, doesn't know the difference any more. Dorian muttered something once about "gotta get my own place," and John could hardly fault him for that, but what do living quarters for an android entail? An extension cord in a broom closet somewhere? That doesn't seem right. John has a brief mental image of music posters taped to the closet's walls and a lava lamp tucked into one corner. What does Dorian  _do_  in his off-hours, anyway?

John doesn't know how to ask. Of the two of them, it's the android that talks about feelings, and John hasn't the first idea how to even  _start_  that kind of conversation. He figures action will serve him when words won't, and takes Dorian to the bar with him after shift is over. Doesn't even ask, really, just neglects to drop him off at the precinct, but Dorian can be indulgent of John's taciturn fits and goes along with being kidnapped, more or less.

A beer or two makes it easier to ask inappropriate questions — alcohol makes a pretty good patsy. John wants to know if Dorian sleeps, how often he needs to charge or reboot or upload or whatever, what kind of equipment that needs. Does he plug into the wall like an MX, does he sleep in a bed? Does he dream, and is it of electric sheep?

Dorian is his usual infuriating mix of cagey and candid, both suffering John's prying and asking difficult questions in return. At the end of the night, John's still not even sure what the answers are, but he's a little too drunk and it's the most natural thing in the world for Dorian to drive him home. He hasn't had visitors, not since he woke up maimed and alone, and seeing the place as if through Dorian's eyes makes it all the more obvious how sterile the space is. Nobody  _lives_  here, really. It's just the human version of a charging station. Hell, a lava lamp would be an improvement.

It's a sobering thought, and John's barely swaying as he gives Dorian the five-cent tour. They get to the empty room that used to be Anna's office, once upon a time, and it doesn't hurt hardly at all to blurt out "you could put a charging station or whatever in there, no trouble. Room's not getting used for anything." He locks himself in the bathroom before Dorian has time to respond, brushes his teeth very thoroughly. He even flosses. 

Unfortunately, the bathroom's not big enough to sleep in, so John has to come out eventually. Dorian is, of course, waiting just outside the door with that look on his face. It's equal parts "John, you're an idiot" and "John, you surprise me," and John really never gets tired of that look. 

"We can make the arrangements in the morning, call the captain, get your stuff shipped over," John mutters, and pushes past Dorian on his way to the bedroom. "Couch okay for tonight?" He's still not sure, Dorian didn't really give straight answers back at the bar, but he's seen him go longer without charging on stakeouts and paperwork binges, so he figures it'll be all right. There's a bookshelf out there if the guy gets bored.

John's almost made it safely into the bedroom when Dorian catches his arm. His hand is warm through the fabric of John's shirtsleeve, no pressure to the grip. It feels — it feels like a hand. "Thanks, man. That would mean a lot," Dorian's saying. The corners of his mouth are curling up, and his eyes are warm, too. 

John doesn't reply, can't, he's all out of courage and there's a handprint on his skin. He just gives Dorian some kind of perfunctory nod as he closes the bedroom door, but standing there in the dark, the relief he feels is almost overwhelming. 

From the pause in Dorian's footsteps before they disappear down the hall, John wonders if Dorian can't hear that, too.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title is in reference to the "Star Trek: TOS" episode "The Devil in the Dark," which was the probable origin of the paraphrased quote "it's life, Jim, but not as we know it" 
> 
> ...and which has surprisingly a lot to do with John and Dorian, if you think about it.
> 
> ____
> 
> You are of course encouraged to come visit me on [tumblr](http://z-delenda-est.tumblr.com). I have no idea what I'm doing, but more friends are always better. And I really like prompts.


End file.
